A Eulogy For Tomorrow
by Ink On Paper
Summary: In which some things are finally allowed to rest . . . . Tag to Pyramid. T/Z


**A/N: I know it's been longer than forever since I last posted anything, but final exams and the removal of wisdom teeth have demanded an unhealthy chunk of my life these past few weeks. I think I'm back in the writing groove (knock on wood) and I have a HUGE (maybe not of Our Forever proportions, but decently large) summer multi-chap fic in the works (so feel free to pester the heck out of me until I get it posted). Anyway, this is a tag to Pyramid, filling in after the last scene and dealing with Ziva's absence at Franks' funeral (I cried, just so you know) and her reaction in the elevator (best freaking scene this season -or, at least, since Christmas). And of course Tony is there, too. I hope hope hope everyone is doing well and, geez, I SOLEMNLY SWEAR I will not stay away from FF this long for the rest of the summer (did I mention I'm on break? Whoop!) I'm a bit chatty tonight so I'll shut up and get on with the piece. Much love and keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Lyrics belong to Augustana; bottom quote belongs to Edmund Burke; bottommost quote, however, is actually mine . . . . **

**"A EULOGY FOR TOMORROW"**

_"Hey we're just bleeding for nothing,_

_"It's hard to breathe when you're standing on your own;_

_"We'll kill ourselves to find freedom,_

_"You'll kill yourself to find anything at all."_

She's sitting on a small, concrete garden bench beneath a late-blooming cherry tree. Her hands are tucked between her knees as she leans forward, her forearms resting against her thighs. From his vantage point, he can't see where, exactly, she's staring because a curtain of dark hair obscures her face, but he knows. Row upon row of neat marble slabs rise out of the ground, evenly spaced, as far as he can see and he knows exactly which one she's watching.

"Ziva," he calls, tentatively approaching. She lifts her head slowly, meeting his eyes fleetingly before turning her face away from him. He chooses to interpret her silence as an invitation and takes up the vacant end of the bench, his hip brushing hers as he shifts. "Hey," he says casually after a brief, unyielding silence.

"Hi," she murmurs distractedly and his fingers tap her knee once, twice, a signal to come back, to stay. She blinks and shakes her head, turning again to stare at him. Her dark eyes are damp and slightly puffy as she regards him wearily.

All he can do is offer her a warm smile and then they return to staring at nothing and everything.

"I was not there today," she says eventually, facing forward once more.

He gives a noncommittal grunt, which does not prompt her into continuing. "I noticed," he acknowledges with a nod. And she is silently grateful that he doesn't press her.

"You called me," she states.

"I know." _You didn't answer._

"I went for a run."

"How far did you go?"

She shakes her head, lifts a slender shoulder in a weak shrug. "I do not know." _Not far enough. _And he doesn't want to ask because he knows she doesn't want to tell; instead, they just sit and wait for the other to disturb the stillness. "I could not do it, Tony," she finally admits, voice soft around her suddenly thick accent, "I could not come here, earlier, to this place . . . . I was going to, I probably should have, I mean, I had my dress laid out and everything, but . . . . I just couldn't –I had to run, move, _something_."

He nods and she watches his profile out of her peripheral vision. "I understand."

"I know."

Then:

"He was dying, Ziva." _If it's any consolation. And it isn't._

She blinks, processes this information. "Mike Franks was . . . ."

"Dying. Yeah," he confirms with a deep inhale. "Cancer, apparently. He was past his prognosis."

"We are all dying," she says after a minute.

And there's something naggingly familiar about that statement, he thinks, but decides to leave it alone. "Thanks for that."

"I am sorry."

"Don't be; it's not like it isn't true."

"Did Gibbs . . . . Was Gibbs, uh, disappointed that I wasn't there?" she asks softly, guilt thinly masked beneath the question mark.

Tony sighs, running his fingers through his already disheveled hair. "He didn't ask, but he looked, I could tell. I think he understood, though, you know, like he does –he always seems to know."

"I know."

"He didn't say much," he continues, pensively, "Actually, he didn't say anything . . . . How're you doing?"

His question surprises her, makes her twist suddenly to look at him, her eyes guarded and head cocked to the side. "I am fine."

"Ziva-"

"I am no stranger to death, Tony. We have been companions, almost, for the past twenty-eight years and, in many aspects, it has been the one constant in my life. I became what I am, and what I was, for many reasons; one being that I was willing to make it stop: The bombings, the shootings, the murders, the destruction –I just wanted it to stop . . . ." she takes a deep breath and her eyes are damp but her voice is strong as she continues, quietly, "My sister, Tony, and her death . . . . there are so many others who were innocent and yet died because of something they had no part of . . . . Mike Franks was no innocent, I know, but this, this entire case, everything, it had _nothing_ to do with him . . . . Cobb was made into a monster to fight in a war that was not his. We fight and fight and for what? For this?" she motions to the acres of tombstones dotting the cemetery as far as either of them can see. "The killing and the fighting and the blowing up, it isn't ever going to stop. Not in our lifetime . . . . These past few years have made me realize how truly fragile life is and how it is . . . . _prudent_ to . . . . to _cling_ to it. But I am tired, Tony. At the end of the day, I am nothing but tired." Her features crumple as a sob escapes her throat and something inside him breaks.

He reaches for her because there isn't much else he can do. His arm goes around her back and she leans in, pressing her face against his chest, just below his collarbone, and he can feel the tears soak into the fabric of his shirt, he can feel the breathy sobs shake her body. He holds her for an indeterminable amount of time, until her muffled crying is reduced to hiccups, and she is the one to end their embrace.

"Thank you," she murmurs, wiping her face against her shoulder and tucking a loose strands of hair behind her ear. "I needed that."

"Anytime." And he means it.

He stands up when she does, his back stiff from sitting on the unforgiving concrete bench. She's still watching that same spot, several yards away, where fresh sod flows over a recently disturbed mount of dirt. "Hey," he says, softly, reaching out and taking her hand. He gives her fingers an encouraging squeeze and she allows him to lead her to that place.

Several arrangements of flowers stand as sentries over the grave, guarding the simple tombstone that is suddenly too blurry for her to read. She closes her eyes and doesn't pray, but instead meditates briefly before Tony's voice infiltrates her headspace.

"He knew what he was getting into, Ziva –just like Cobb knew what would be required of him. I don't know the answers about what exactly we're fighting for or against or whatever. And I don't know if we're accomplishing anything. But I like to think we're doing something right. You're right in that we probably won't see a resolution to this in our lifetimes, but maybe, _maybe_, our kids or our grandkids, maybe they will."

"I hope so."

And she hopes.

...

**"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." –Edmund Burke**

**"Because, after all, the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to nothing -and while she isn't wholly good, nor is she a man, she is an able soldier and will be damned if she does nothing." –from _Rhetorics_ by Ink On Paper**

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><p><strong>AN2: :^)**


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